


Heart Is Where The Home Is

by kyIians



Category: Men's Football RPF, National Football League RPF
Genre: Football, Football ship, Julian loves Presnel, M/M, Neymar loves Kylian, Pining, Roommates, Unrequited, angsty because i can’t write any other genre, cute too, draxlembe, neybappe - Freeform, one shots, psg, unrequited pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-19 03:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17593931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyIians/pseuds/kyIians
Summary: The one where Neymar can’t sleep when Kylian’s not around.And;The one where Presnel asks Julian to move in with him.





	1. Heart Is Where The Home Is (Neybappe)

Neymar lay idle in his bed, waiting. It had been an eventful day. From camel races to evening training, to one-on-one interviews with renowned allies of the chairman. He was spent. 

He always did end his days more exhausted than usual during the Qatar tour. He liked it here a lot. Liked the sun beating down with abundance of vitamin D. Liked the heat subtly burning at his skin, a mere reminiscent of summer days in his home country. It was always hot in Brazil too. Most of all he liked how relieving it was. It was noticeable, in him and all his teammates, and even the coaching team. 

He didn't know why - no matter how hard he tried to let go, how hard he tried to let loose - he just doesn't feel relieved. 

In fact his eyelids were heavier than usual and his shoulders ached chronically. He was so tired. Yet nothing could bring him to hit the hay. He tried counting sheep, calling his mamae, FaceTiming his son, playing on his Nintendo switch.

Eventually he just gave up trying, on the verge of tears. He'd never felt so weak, so fatigued, yet so incapable of sleeping. It was nearing midnight. Coach Tuchel had let them go at eight, and Neymar had rushed to his hotel room straight after dinner. The last three days of relentless blistering heat taking a toll on him. 

He waited in the darkness of his hotel room. His limbs splayed widely on the excessively large bed. The larger it was the emptier it felt, that's what he always told his sister to get her to let him in her bed. He was only a child then, and irrationally terrified of monsters under beds and closets. Rafaella never neglected him and never sent him away. She was ideal for a situation like this. 

But she was hundreds of miles away and the thought alone brought a sting to his eyes. 

He wishes Tuchel had declared a team budget that would limit a pair to a room. A roomie sounds fantastic right about now. Neymar found that being around civilisation helped significantly with his insomnia. He'd gotten so used to the subtle but reassuring respiration of his sister and his son, that it begun to feel terribly lonely in his hotel room. Davi Lucca had long slept by now. Everyone had long slept by now. 

He thinks it's futile. Useless. He's just going to have to sport the most defined pair of eye bags in training tomorrow. Of course not forgetting the heaviness in footwork and fatigue that accompanies said eye bags. 

Until the gentle but sure sound of someone slotting their keycard into his door handle awakens him. The lights turn on as soon as the person slots their card in and Neymar is met with a faceful of who he can only describe as his saviour. 

"How-" He begins but is quickly anticipated and cut off. 

"Got coach to give me a spare, I know how you get at night." 

Neymar watches as Kylian peels off his training boots, folding his socks into them. His skin looks dewy under the spotlights and Neymar knows it's because Kylian's body doesn't react well to heat. He sweats buckets, and though Kylian is self-conscious of it, Neymar thinks it's endearing. 

"That can't have sounded right." 

"It didn't, that's why I rephrased." 

"Oh. What did you say?"

Kylian has his back turned to him as he briefly steps into the bathroom. Leaving the door wide open. Neymar could hear the faint sound of pissing and chuckles at how shameless the younger had gotten around him. 

"I told him you told me to pick you up a spare just in case." His voice resonating with the echo of the bathroom. 

"Nice save." Neymar smiles. "How comes you're in so late?" 

I almost cried for you he wants to say. 

"I was running laps around the new stadium. It's pretty sick." 

He re-emerges out of the bathroom only to find Neymar gracing him a look of bewilderment.

"How? We did one set of stretches at training and I almost had a cardiac arrest." 

Kylian chuckles disapprovingly, peeling off his shirt. "You're so melodramatic." 

Neymar tries to conceal his wandering gaze but finds himself compromised when a slanted look chanced at Kylian's sweaty torso was caught by the younger. He's giving him the half smile he always does, like he's unfazed and Neymar is thankful but also unnerved. 

"You didn't have to wait up." Kylian points out, thumbing at his shorts. If Neymar hadn't been so busy trying to pretend he wasn't transfixed on Kylian's naked upper body, he would've noticed the fond look Kylian had given him then. 

"I tried." He mumbles, trying to restrain a childish pout. 

"Count sheep?" 

"Yes, that shit never works."

"Did you call mama?" 

Neymar's words had to stumble over the flutter in his chest. He doesn't know why he just could never get over Kylian call his mother mama. It made him feel some type of way. "Yeah. She had to go pick up papai's prescription." 

By now Kylian had undressed to the point where the only item of clothing on him was those tight boxers he adored so much. Neymar always thought they were childish, teased him about them numerous times in the dressing rooms. Yet somehow under the dim hotel lights they were captivating. The way they hugged his lower body in all the right places, it was a mission not to outright stare. 

"I'm gonna take a shower, I'll be out in 5." He declares after folding his training clothes into a neat pile.

Neymar can't really feel much aside from the tightening fatigue that made his limbs jelly and his mind hazy. He's so tired he almost can't comprehend. 

"A-Are you warm?" He asks without thinking. 

Kylian glances up at him hastily. "Are you cold?" He counters. 

Neymar could lie and say he was. He could say remotely anything under the two metre blanket to earn him a little shut eye. He nods pathetically, his reddened ears and nose a testament to his lie. 

Kylian looks sold nevertheless. "I'll take a hot shower." He compromises. 

"You hate hot showers." 

"Eh, but you're cold. It doesn't matter." 

It's quiet for a moment as Neymar just stares dumbfoundedly at the younger. He's so entranced he can't hide it from his expression. This wasn't anything new from Kylian, he always doted the elder behind closed doors. He always took care of him and looked after him. Always chanced him looks of concern when he accidentally falls over in training, or when he's being too playful with his teammates that he ends up stupidly injuring himself somehow. Kylian was always there. With plasters and massages and coddling words of encouragement. 

He was always there like the sun in the morning. Like the bright, beautiful sun shining down from the seven skies. He was such a warm presence in Neymar's life. He was his home in Paris and his home everywhere else in the world. Neymar had found himself stuttering around the nickname 'mi sol' a number of times. A heat of panic always making him retract. My sun. That's what his Kylian was. So bright, so radiant, so warm. 

Warm. 

"Kylian." He all but chokes out all of a sudden. 

Kylian had already had his back turned to him, rummaging through Neymar's limited supply of hotel shampoos. He could see from his elevated position on the high bed how Kylian's body stilled at his tone.

"C-Could you just come here a minute?" The tears that threatened to spill were burning at his eyes. The exhaustion making him hazy, his mind a giant fog of unadulterated want. He just wanted to sleep. His body was pleading for it. He wanted to be warm. 

Kylian didn't need to be told twice. He was perhaps a little reluctant, mind set on showering first, but Neymar had looked so pitiful then that Kylian's feet had found their way to him without second thought. 

Neymar sees him approach and peels open the blanket, allowing room to invite him. Kylian takes him up on the offer, climbing into the bed next to him. At first he was a little far from the elder, but didn't need any soliciting words of encouragement as he shuffled his own body forward, wrapping his arms firmly around Neymar, spooning him. 

He pulls him further into his body if possible, his leg slotting itself over Neymar's own two that were squeezed against each other. They're facing each other under the blanket. Kylian's torso pressed against his own. 

Neymar couldn't explain the reassurance he had felt then. It was nothing like he'd ever felt before, and everything like being around Kylian. His body aligned with Kylian's. The certainty of the naked toned torso underneath his fingertips. The close proximity of another human being. The heat that engulfed him whole. He could feel his toes curl and his nose moisten where Kylian's warm exhale hit his face. 

Suddenly everything washed away. The strong urge to cry, the sour homesickness, the chronic fatigue. Here, where Kylian towered over him in a protective embrace, where every inch of his body was pressed against an expanse of Kylian's, where his personal space was practically conquered, he was always going to be okay. 

His eyes are drooped with exhaustion, yet he fights to keep them open, peering at Kylian with a fondness simmering in his chest. Kylian too looks tired, Neymar first identified it in the little things about him. Like the way he blinked slower than usual and how he gradually quietened down. Neymar could shamelessly confess he observed Kylian in that way. When they were around their teammates he was a happy character. The team babied him if anything, teasing and humouring him to wits end. Neymar too participated when he saw the opportunity. Kylian always chanced him a particular look of dominant disapproval when he pulled a prank too far and Neymar would all but curl into himself. 

Kylian had that sort of affect on Neymar. Because as soon as all their teammates left the room and it was just the pair of them, it was hard to differentiate who was more mature. Kylian didn't assume the team-baby role when he was alone with Neymar. When Neymar first noticed how Kylian's demeanour changed when it was just them two, he didn't understand how to react. They saw a baby and he saw - a man. The manliest of men. A gentleman if anything. Behind the scenes, Kylian babied Neymar, not the other way round. 

And Neymar loved it.

Neymar remembers the day he finally associated a label with the floodgate of emotions he felt for Kylian. They went from paternal love, he said it was a fatherly stance, that Kylian was like a son to him. But that was the farthest from the truth. Then came best friend, that Neymar had found in Kylian what he left behind in Barcelona; a close friend. That too would prove to be a lie when Neymar caught himself staring longingly at Kylian's lips on more than one occasion. It was when he ran out of excuses that he finally came to terms with it. With what it was really. 

He loved Kylian. Like Ross loved Rachel. Like Romeo loved Juliet. Like Draxler loved Presnel. 

It was unexpected the first time he said it out loud. He had whispered it to himself in the mirror a number of times, to try and hear what it sounded like, if it made sense. The first few tries it didn't. 'I love you' he whispered to the mirror 'Kylian, I love you.' It made his insides squirm and his pulse skyrocket but he was determined. The first time he said it to Kylian they were alone at his house, lounging on his couch amidst a gruelling game of fifa. They were at a solid draw 14 games in and neither was relenting. They were like that, competitive in nature, perhaps even more so with each other. They decided over a pizza delivery that the 15th game was going to be the decider, and so both were straining their abilities to the fullest. The score was two all and the ball was in Neymar's possession. His eyes flit from the screen to Kylian's hands on the controller. Acting before thinking he quickly stretches his palm forward and covers Kylian's eyes. 

Kylian struggles immediately with a shout, dropping the controller. In that moment Neymar manages to slot one in and Kylian was livid. Neymar couldn't help finding humour in it. He cackled away ceaselessly from his side of the sofa, tears practically streaming down his face. 

"Cheater!" Kylian shouts again, getting up off the couch. He was very expressive in his bodily gestures, especially toward injustice. So when he pounces up, Neymar can't refrain the fit of laughter that overcomes him again. 

"Cheating bastard." He curses, glaring at Neymar with a half smile. "Sore loser!" 

Kylian then jumps onto the couch and straddles Neymar who is strewn in an awkward half-lay half-sit position. He's holding his stomach and wincing, having strained his abdomen with too much laughter. He doesn't quite notice the compromising position they're in until his giggling dies down. His eyes are wide then, when Kylian too stops smiling. He's scared Kylian can feel his pulse hammering in his chest where his hands are pressed down. Breaking out into cold sweat he thinks fast about changing the atmosphere. Thus the only explanation as to why he curled his foot into Kylian's leg and mustered all his strength to flip them over. 

He was successful in doing so, but it too was deemed useless. Now that he was the one straddling Kylian, the silence pervaded, overcoming the pair of them. They weren't smiling, just staring. And somehow this position proved entirely more difficult for the elder. He could feel his own restraint wane significantly. He was the one with unrequited feelings after all. He couldn't be blamed. 

"I love you Kylian." He closes his eyes and whispers. Deciding that now was a better time than never. 

Kylian just stares at him quietly, almost going cross-eyed from their proximity. The game was long abandoned, the automated commentating only white noise in the background. It's silent. Neymar feels uneasy, grows to regret the four words that abashedly came out of his mouth. In those few seconds he curses himself over and over for his rash acting without thinking. He was just a pathetic hopeless romantic that sought too much after the cliche. 

"Huh?" He hardly hears Kylian's syllables, more so feels them against his skin. He doesn't know what to say, momentarily hazed. But then he thinks fuck it, he's already said it once, already thrown himself off the deep end, head first. Why not just finish. Who knows, maybe he'll turn up Tom Daley. 

His mind and gestures aren't one in their comprehension of deep-end. He discerns this when he finds himself inevitably going in for a kiss. He half realises it when his head is dipping both uncontrollably and entirely deliberately. He panics but chooses to soldier on, closing his eyes tightly. 

It was only a short kiss. A mere press to the lips. A press he couldn't bring himself to forget to this day, even after a plethora of firmer, wetter presses betided. The feeling of Kylian's lips against his, chapped, leathery and so masculine, not nearly as soft or plush as a woman's. It was everything he ever wanted or needed. Those chafed lips against his own were the stuff of his fantasies and would continue to be so to this day. 

Now with Kylian's arms around his waist like muscle memory, his heart swells at how far they've come. Kylian's warm breath against his face is all the reassurance he needs. That his Kylian is always here. 

"I love you." He mumbles, Kylian's eyes still trained intently on his face. 

He found that Kylian liked to stare at his face a lot. Especially up close. His eyes would pan Neymar's face over and over until he finally swooped in to take his lips. It was always like that with Kylian. He wasn't hesitant or cautious like Neymar. You could see the want in his eyes. In the way they wantonly memorised every blemish and scar on the canvas of his face, his lips the main target. He didn't stare at Neymar's lips as much as he did his eyes. He always gazed into Neymar's eyes with so much love that the elder would grow light-headed. 

"I love you more." Kylian words quietly but proudly. 

More. Always more. Never too. 

He's looking at Neymar expectantly, before taking the bait for himself. Leaning in and stealing the elders breath away. His lips are warm and Neymar feels as though Kylian had just blown life into him, an ecstasy coursing through him. The kiss was soft and moist, Kylian's skin still sticky from the heat. He feverishly presses another kiss into Neymar's mouth, followed by another. Until his hand finds its way to his jaw, thumb caressing Neymar's neck gently as he pecks his lips over and over, like he just can't get enough. 

They go at it for a while, Kylian seemingly insatiable. Neymar effectively knows why he's so worked up, why he had to run track to burn out his yearning, it was fundamentally his fault. He'd denied the younger any alone time since they had come to Qatar. It wasn't a punishment of sorts, and definitely not intentional, he just couldn't find the time to slot it in. Hell, he hardly had time to slot sleep into his schedule. He was complacent for the most part, Kylian's heat becoming his own - he wanted nothing more than to be one with Kylian tonight. His exhaustion however, had plans of its own.

"Tomorrow." He mumbles into Kylian's mouth. The younger tonguing at his bottom lip suggestively. He knows how to work Neymar. All the right buttons to press. And if Neymar wasn't so overcome with fatigue, he'd be more turned on than Oxford Street on Christmas Eve. 

"Ney," Kylian whines like a wanton child, pressing his lower half against Neymar's legs so he was wholly aware of his depravity in that moment. 

Neymar chuckles when he feels Kylian's situation against his thigh. His expression one of so much love. The fact that he could still do this to Kylian with a mere makeout session was endearing. It spoke volumes of his effect on the younger and he wanted to reciprocate just how much those feelings were mutual.

Just not today. Not right now. When his own body was practically begging on its knees for recharging. 

"Kyky," Neymar only has to eye him once and Kylian discerns that it's out of his hands. Although he can't refrain from humphing as he recoils back to their cuddling position, not before pecking the elder's lips for a last time. He's watching Neymar, eyes doing that thing where they lap around his face like they're entrenching every detail to memory - and Neymar understands Kylian's non-verbal communication enough to know this was his way of encouraging Neymar to sleep. 

And so he does. He sleeps wholeheartedly. And never was there a better sleep than the one where Kylian was everywhere. Where Kylian's scent was the only thing he smelt, and Kylian's breath was the only thing he felt, where Kylian's eyes were trained on him and Kylian's body was his only and every certainty. His sole reassurance. Here he was finally warm. He was safe. He will always be safe with those arms around his waist. 

And he'll always, always be home where Kylian is.


	2. What Rhymes With Unrequited (Draxlembe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Presnel asks Julian to move in with him.

Presnel Kimpembe. Kim. Presko. Else known as; babe. 

Everyone at the club knew him as the life of the party. The vivacious, attractively lively and animated character; that was Presnel. He was always a couple minutes late to training, and was always equipped with a new tale to excuse himself. Each of which amused Tuchel enough to let him off. He always got away with teasing his teammates to no end too. His mischief ranged from pinching to tickling, to stealing cheek kisses and suffocating his peers with tight bear hugs. He chewed his food too loudly and never wore the same shirt twice. He was careless, reckless and so noisy. Yet, that all did not take away from his endearment. He was just all-over a lovable presence. 

Julian was painfully aware of the fact. 

Well aware of how easy it was to become enthralled with the Frenchman. Hell, half the world was aware after the World Cup. 

Hence, rooted his belief that his obsession with Presnel was nothing special. It was nothing that could ever become something. He was just another fan that wore the same crest on his chest. At first he thought, to call himself another fan was a little far-fetched, since he knew Presnel personally. Since he'd seen all his flaws and charismas firsthand. Had spent the better half of his last 3 years with him. It was unfair to characterise his relationship with Presnel as that of a fan-and-idol type. But that was what it was.

That was the painful truth. 

He recalls the way his stomach churned when Presnel composedly asked him to move in with him. He had casually popped the question during one of their doping examinations, too busy fiddling with his buccal sample to witness Julian almost choke to death on his own saliva. He remembers reciting to himself that 'it didn't mean anything', that Presnel was only asking because he'd heard about Julian's struggle with rent. The one which he doesn't even remember vocalising. But maybe Presnel knew him well enough to see his non-communicated struggle. 

Presnel knowing him too well was just another one of his amounting problems. And another barricade to his unrequited feelings. 

In retrospect, Julian should have known better than to agree to living with Presnel. But it seemed Julian liked suffering, because two months after settling in and he swears it's the only thing he feels. 

It doesn't start off half as bad. Presnel was acutely aware of having his privacy compromised by another body under his roof, so he's respectful for the most part. He doesn't come home late, doesn't blast his music too loud and lets Julian pick what to watch for dinner. 

That all takes a drastic turn when he becomes comfortable living alongside Julian. It doesn't take too long for the pair to fall into routine, they were best friends after all. 

In the mornings, whoever woke up first would turn on the coffee machine. Usually Presnel drove them to training, but on the occasional off-day, Julian was behind the wheel. After training, Presnel would either go out or come straight home with Julian. Where they ate dinner, Julian more often cooking for Presnel than not. They always watched tv while eating and took turns to clean up afterwards. Their routines from there on differed every day. Some days Presnel would stay home and pester Julian until he got sleepy, and other times he would leave and come home to find Julian asleep on the couch. 

Then there were times like this. Where Julian sat in the kitchen alone in the midst of night, swaying a glass of wine back and forth in his hand. It was nights like this he found unbearable. 

When Presnel would bring a girl home. 

On those nights, Julian couldn't bring himself to sleep. The thought of what was happening only a floor above him was a pill too big to swallow. He felt ashamed of his feelings most in these moments. When he had to up the volume of the tv a notch or two to drown out any stray noise.

He didn't want to hear anything. And God forbid he saw anything. He just wanted to drown his sorrows in red wine until the nausea in his stomach settled. 

But the red wine wasn't doing much else than flaring his cheeks and neck a searing red. His legs were restless, ceaselessly tapping away on the leg of the high-chair. He contemplated leaving. Going to Kevin or Eric's for the night. But he didn't want Presnel to suspect him in any way. 

This was normal amongst 'bros'. In fact, Julian was expected to congratulate Presnel tomorrow morning with a 'get in bro'. Truthfully, the only thing Julian wanted to do was scream into a pillow until his veins burst. He hated everything about his relationship with Presnel. He wished the younger wasn't as friendly as he was, and didn't take Julian under his wing like he did. 

Maybe if he knew how much of a lost cause Julian was, he wouldn't have. If he knew how easy it was for Julian to become infatuated with him, then he wouldn't have.

In a spur of jealousy, Julian didn't know who to hate more. Presnel or himself. Presnel for making him feel like this. For making him so hopeless and pathetic. For being everything Julian wanted in this world and more. Or himself for being like this. For harbouring such unrequited feelings for his best friend. For his straight best friend. 

He figured fate was playing a big fat joke on him. Or maybe it was karma for the time he rejected a girl in the third grade. At this point he didn't ask for much, just for the sleepless nights and the painful overthinking to stop. 

He takes another sip of wine, willing the pain in his chest away. But nothing comes of it. The more he thinks about Presnel upstairs, the more it hurts. Eventually, the pain multiplies tenfold and a choked sob almost escapes him as he brings a hand to his mouth to restrain himself. He can't help it. The all-encompassing nausea, his heart's constant clenching and unclenching. It was textbook heartbreak in all its physicality.

"Still up babe?" 

He freezes at the sound of Presnel's raspy voice. His back stiffening as Presnel enters the kitchen in all his half-naked glory. 

"Mhm," He keeps his response short. Scared of what he might throw up if he opens his mouth. 

Presnel sporting nothing but his boxers, reaches over Julian's motionless form on the island, picking up the bottle of wine and inspecting it. He doesn't look like he'd been sleeping, despite the disheveled bed head and Julian hates what it entails. 

"What's this? Red wine?" 

Julian nods, trying to keep his gaze minimal. 

"Never took you for a wine fella Ju." He breaks out into a grin and Julian just wants to kiss it off his face. "How comes you're drinking alone?"

Julian grimaces. It was a misleading question, surely. Presnel was full of those. Questions that could potentially compromise Julian. Why are you drinking alone? Shouldn't we shower together to save time? You don't mind if I have girls over, do you? 

"Dunno." Julian nips it in the bud. He doesn't want to sell himself the thought that maybe Presnel was being suggestive. 

"You could've asked me y'know babe." He puts the bottle down, grabbing a glass of his own and sitting beside Julian. 

"You were busy." Julian tries to hide the venom in his tone but he's sure Presnel catches it because his brows shoot up. 

"Yeah, sorry about that.." He chuckles nervously. Pouring himself a cup of Julian's wine.

A momentary silence overcomes them. It's tense for inexplicable reasons and Julian is unsettled. He knows it was his own spite that rendered Presnel quiet, but he wasn't to be blamed. If Presnel knew how much pain he was causing the German - he'd be spiteful too. 

"She's just a friend." Presnel reassures after a sip of wine. And Julian ponders what made him feel the need to justify himself.

Then he noticed that Presnel was always justifying himself when his integrity was in question. 'She's just a friend. She just needed a place to crash. She came on to me first'. Along with a plethora of other excuses. 

He always felt the need to feed Julian a little white lie.

"You said that about the last one." Julian teases with a smile of his own, trying to ease the tension. 

Presnel almost chokes on his sip, beating his chest with a balled fist dramatically. "You jealous babe?"

A flash of panic materialises on Julian's expression before he composes himself. He's taken aback. His heartbeat loud enough for the pair to hear. It takes him a moment to respond, as he thoroughly thinks through the wording of his response so it didn't leave any room for misinterpretation.

Presnel, however, beats him to the punch when he sees how conflicted the other had become. "You're allowed to bring girls over too. You haven't gotten laid since we started living together. Are you celibate?" 

Julian laughs. Ears reddening nervously. "No." He mumbles. "It's just not a big deal."

"It doesn't hurt?" Presnel presses, despite Julian's non-verbal plea for a change of topic. 

"Hurt?" He cocks his head to the side, questioningly. 

"Yeah, you don't get blue balls?"

Presnel doubles over when he earns himself an elbow to the abdomen, grip loosening on his glass to nurse his now aching stomach. 

"What?? It hurts for me." Presnel whines like a child, gracing Julian with a playful glare. 

"Does it?"

"Yeah bro. I can hold it for no more than a week." His eyes are carefully following Julian's. Scrutinising his reaction. "Something about Haitian sex drive." 

He had to know he was being suggestive.

Julian tries to conceal how flustered he is by the topic of conversation, but the tip of his ears was always his biggest giveaway. The red flush that decorated them telltale of how on edge he was, and it seemed Presnel knew how to read them. His gaze flickering back and forth from Julian's ears to his expression. The tension between them was back, and felt like it had never dissipated to begin with. 

"I guess I'm not too crazy about it." Julian lies, his finger circling the rim of his glass, avoiding Presnel's scrutinising stare. The frenchman could discern his lies with just one look. 

"How comes?" He points a look to Julian's crotch. "It doesn't work?"

It was bittersweet. Presnel's provocation and the reality of their relationship. Of Presnel's sexuality. Their relationship was impossible in many ways and the subtle sexual tension that brewed between them was always suffocating for Julian.

"Works fine sir." He mocks arrogantly. Taking a huge gulp of red wine. 

Presnel does the honour of filling his glass up, slowly, his hand holding the neck of the bottle almost indecently. Julian's mind was contested in a battle of how to react, or even how to interpret Presnel's behaviour. 

He didn't know what to make of it. He's never acted this way toward Julian before. And it didn't make sense. It couldn't be primal urge because Presnel had been up there with that girl for well over two hours. Unless he was some sort of nymphomaniac, his thirst was certainly quenched. Nor could it be anything else because Julian refused to sell himself that eon of hope. 

He wasn't going to fall into a pit of agonising disappointment over false hope. 

"Or maybe," Presnel speaks carefully but firmly. "You jack off when I'm gone."

It wasn't a question, it was accusatory and it had Julian tightening his grip on the island. He opens his mouth to deny it but his words fail him, shoulders slumping defeatedly instead. 

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about babe," Presnel snickers, rubbing at his back consolingly. "It just means you're a healthy young man. Well done!"

"Fuck off I'm older than you." He shakes Presnel's hand off his back. Unsure how Presnel's skin on his own would have him reacting at the very moment. 

"Whatever you say babe." He rolls his eyes. 

After a feat of comfortable silence, it didn't seem like Presnel intended to leave anytime soon, so Julian asked "shouldn't you be upstairs?"

"She'll live. I haven't seen my babe all day." 

You could have seen me in those two hours you spent fucking her, Julian wants to spit out of animosity. It isn't his place though. He's only the roommate and the quicker he comes to terms with that, the easier this whole living together thing will get. 

"I can live too. You see me everyday, go to her." He encourages, despite his heart breaking with every syllable. 

Presnel gives him a pointed look then. He seemed displeased, almost disappointed, his eyes dangerously examining Julian's face. Probably trying to find if there was any conviction behind his words. 

"You don't want me here or something?"

I don't want her here. It's her not you. It's you with her. It's knowing that she's sleeping upstairs, satisfied, all thanks to you. That's what I can't bear. 

"Of course I want you." More than you'll ever know Presko. "It's just etiquette. I'm fine alone." 

"Wow," Presnel shakes his head. "I never knew you liked doing so many things alone babe." He wiggles his brows suggestively. 

Julian has to refrain from elbowing him again, both of them breaking out into laughter. It's moments like these that remind him why he fell in love with Presnel in the first place. His ability to make light of any situation, how he never failed to make Julian laugh or smile. How he made Julian forget his sorrows with nothing more than a gummy smile. It was all the little things that accumulated. 

Here, under the dimmed down kitchen lights, Julian couldn't help fall in love all over again. With the almost-naked, wine-hating loser that sat beside him. Snorting instead of laughing and almost tipping over his glass. He was perfect in all his imperfections. 

Julian realises he couldn't resist him. No matter what state he was in. Half-naked or bundled in blankets. Accompanied by a girl for the night or not. He was whipped and there was no going back. And frankly, he didn't want to go back. Because whatever brought Presnel into his life, didn't bring him without reason. 

He taught Julian how to love. How to love despite not being loved back. How to love regardless. How to love always. That was Presnel Kimpembe. Kim. Presko. Else known as; the love of Julian's life. 

"Y'know those things you do alone, babe." Presnel turns to him with a grim smile, eyes glazed over as he raises his glass. "Let's do them together from now on." 

He winks, downing his wine without shame.


End file.
